Behind  the  T eakwood 
indow 


Al  Tale  of  India  Womankood 


By 

ETHEL  CODY  HIGGIN BOTTOM 


The  Woman’s  Board  of  Foreign  Missions  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church  in  the  U.  S.  A. 

156  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


Behind  the  Teakwood  ^X^indow 


A Tale  of  India  Womankood 

By 

ETHEL  CODY  HIGGINBOTTOM 

J^AKSHMI  CHATERJI  looked  through  the 

carved  teakwood  window  down  into  the 
street.  Lakshmi’s  husband  had  been  away  at 
college  several  weeks,  and  Lakshmi  was  wishing  : 
''Oh,  if  only  he  would  come  home,  or  I could  go 
for  a ride  on  that  elephant!”  She  watched  the 
men  sitting  on  the  beast’s  huge  back  as  it  quickly 
passed  her  window,  its  big  bell  tolling,  telling 
people  to  get  out  of  its  way.  ''Why  must  Indian 
girls  live  shut  in?” 

She  thought  of  her  cousin,  and  rebellion  sprang 
into  her  heart.  Her  cousin  Phulwa’s  father  was 
progressive.  He  believed  in  the  education  of 
women.  He  even  said  he  hoped  the  time  would 
come  when  the  purdah  system  would  be  abol- 


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ished.  With  a little  groan  Lakshmi  cried  out: 
“Why  can’t  the  purdah  system  be  abolished  and 
we  Indian  girls  go  out  the  way  white  women  do? ’’ 

Just  then  a horse  and  carriage  stopped  below 
her  window,  and  a white  lady  was  heard  talking 
to  the  brass  merchant  who  had  come  from  the 
shop  across  the  street  in  answer  to  the  driver’s 
call.  She  handed  him  a brass  kettle,  and  some 
conversation  went  on  between  them  which 
Lakshmi  could  not  hear,  but  suddenly  the  lady 
raised  her  voice  saying : “All  right.  I’ll  call  on' 
Saturday  for  it.  I’m  the  Padre  Memsahiba  who 
lives  by  the  river.’’  It  was  the  wife  of  the  mis- 
sionary. 

Lakshmi  was  suddenly  bold.  Maybe  this  was 
the  Padre  Memsahiba  who  had  been  teaching 
Phulwa  to  read.  She  raised  her  voice  and 
shouted:  “Memsahiba.’’  The  driver  pulled  in 
his  horse,  and  the  Memsahiba  leaned  out. 

Lakshmi  grew  shy  again,  but  the  Memsahiba 
had  heard  the  voice  from  behind  the  carved 
teakwood  window,  and  she  called : ’ Salaam 
bibi.  Kya  hae?  ” (Greetings  madam.  What 
is  it?) 


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Lakshmi’s  courage  came  back,  and  tbe  great 
longing  of  ber  beart  went  out  in  ber  voice : “Ob, 
Memsabiba,  please  come  and  talk  to  me.” 

Like  a flash  tbe  lady  was  out  of  ber  carriage 
and  on  tbe  front  veranda  of  Laksbmi’s  fatber- 
m-law’s  bouse.  Laksbmi  ran  to  tbe  stairs,  but 
just  as  sbe  started  down  sbe  remembered  sbe 
bad  been  forbidden  to  come  down  those  stairs 
today.  Sbe  burst  into  tears  as  ber  fatber-in-law 
opened  tbe  door  at  tbe  foot,  saying : “Daughter, 
there  is  a lady  down  here  who  says  you  have 
called  ber.  But  you  can’t  come  through  this 
room  where  your  brotber-in-law  lies  sick,  you 
know.” 

There  was  anguish  in  Laksbmi’s  voice.  “Ob, 
father,  I want  to  read,  to  learn  to  read  like 
Pbulwa.” 

He  never  bad  seen  Laksbmi  like  this.  She 
always  bad  been  a proper  Indian  girl,  shy  and 
retiring  before  ber  fatber-in-law.  He  remem- 
bered that  Pbulwa’s  father  bad  told  him  bow 
much  happier  bis  household  bad  been  since  tbe 
women  folks  bad  learned  to  read,  but  be  shook 
bis  bead:  “You  can’t  come  down  today.  Maybe 


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she  will  come  some  day  when  my  son  is  well.” 
As  he  turned  away  he  was  almost  overcome  by 
Lakshmi’s  sobs. 

Sundar  was  in  her  husband’s  room  below. 
She  heard  it  all ; she  too  had  wanted  to  learn 
to  read.  Quickly  she  ran  to  her  husband’s  side. 
She  was  well  enough  behaved  to  remember  that 
she  must  not  speak  to  her  husband  until  he 
addressed  her,  but  the  eagerness  in  her  face 
spoke  volumes. 

Her  husband  raised  his  head,  hot  with  fever. 
He  read  the  eager  face,  then  looked  toward  the 
door  which  had  just  closed  after  his  father  and 
said : “Call  her.  I’ll  cover  my  face.  Tell  my 
father  I ordered  it.  You  read,  too.”  He  fell 
bach  on  his  pillow,  pulling  the  sheet  over  his  face. 

Sundar’s  voice  shook  with  emotion.  “Lakshmi ! 
Come  quick!  ” 

The  old  father  had  shown  the  inherent  cul- 
ture of  a true  Indian  gentleman  of  high  caste 
in  explaining  the  situation  to  the  missionary,  but 
she  had  seen  through  his  polite,  gentle  manner 
and  words,  his  fear  of  the  missionary  lest  she 
spoil  the  girl’s  faith  in  their  Hindu  gods.  He 


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feared  to  let  women  folks  learn,  because  bis 
vedas  said:  "'Women  are  no  better  than  cows, 
and  must  not  learn,”  He  had,  indeed,  heard 
many  Hindus  advocate : "‘Let  us  educate  the 

women  if  we  wish  to  make  India  take  its  place 
among  the  nations.”  But  most  of  the  Hindus 
who  argued  thus  had  been  educated  m mission 
schools  and  colleges  and  were  almost  Christians. 

The  missionary  was  saying : ""I’m  very  sorry 
your  son  is  so  ill.  Can  I do  anything  for  him? 
If  not.  I’ll  accept  your  kind  invitation  and  call 
again  on  your  daughter-in-law.  ” 

The  door  burst  open,  and  the  two  girls  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  the  men’s  sitting-room,  a 
place  they  seldom  entered.  Lakshmi  was  smil- 
ing through  her  tears,  too  eager  to  be  shy,  and 
Sundar  stood  severe  and  defiant. 

""Daughters!  ” The  old  fathers’  voice  was  full 
of  anger. 

He  had  addressed  them,  so  Sundar  dare  speak  : 
""Father,  your  son  commanded  me  to  call  her. 
He  covered  his  face  while  she  passed.  He  says 
to  tell  you  to  please  come  to  him.  His  fever  is 
high.  ” The  father’s  face  softened.  He  was 


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man 


anxious  about  bis  eldest  son.  Tbe  young 
bad  bad  many  days  of  malaria  recently.  Tbe 
father  burned  past  tbe  girls  to  bis  son’s  bedside. 

Tbe  young  man  was  breathing  bard,  between 
fever  and  excitement.  “Father,”  be  gasped,  “I 
am  very  sick.  I may  die.  I beg  of  you,  let  tbe 
girls  read.”  He  too  was  a mission  college  grad- 
uate. 

Tbe  two  young  women  were  left  alone  with  tbe 
missionary. 

The  father  bad  not  answered  bis  son,  but  sum- 
moning a servant,  be  ordered  cold  water.  He 
sponged  bis  son  as  tbe  doctor  bad  ordered. 
Filled  with  terror  at  bis  son’s  depressing  sugges- 
tion that  be  might  not  be  long  with  them,  be 
calmed  bis  wrath. 

Tbe  missionary  thought  of  tbe  girls  in  another 
bouse  who  were  eagerly  waiting  for  her  to  come 
and  give  them  tbeir  lesson.  But  one  more  look 
at  those  two  eager  faces  and  bearing  tbeir 
voices  pleading,  “Memsabiba,  please  teach  us  to 
read  English  so  we  can  know  and  read  as  our 
husbands  do,”  decided  her.  She  remembered 
tbe  day  she  and  her  husband  bad  landed  in  India 


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after  his  first  furlough  to  America.  He  knew 
Hindustani,  while  she  did  not.  She  recalled  how 
she  had  wailed  in  her  heart:  "'Oh,  he  knows  so 
much  more  than  I do!”  She  had  worked  hard 
at  the  language,  hoping  to  catch  up  with  him  and 
she  knew  what  these  little  wives  felt. 

The  lessons  began  that  minute.  But  the  fam- 
ily was  sworn  to  secrecy. 

When  the  second  son  Pervase,  came  home  for 
vacation  he  talked  constantly  to  Lakshmi  about 
the  mission  college  and  the  wonderful  American 
professor.  He  told  her  about  the  Bible,  often 
repeating:  "Tf  only  the  teachings  of  Jesus  could 
be  carried  out  in  India!”  And  then  longingly  he 
would  add : "And  if  only  you  could  go  to  mission 
school!”  He  wondered  why  that  made  her  shyly 
smile. 

Pervase  had  been  at  home  only  a few  days 
when  he  came  suddenly  upon  his  wife.  She  sat 
on  a low  stool  before  her  carved  teakwood  win- 
dow. In  her  lap  lay  his  English  Bible,  open 
where  she  had  dropped  it  when  he  had  sur- 


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prised  her.  With  a great  longing  he  said:  “Oh, 
Lahshmi ! ” 

Never  had  he  called  her  that  before.  It  is 
contrary  to  Hindu  custom  for  a man  to  call  his 
wife  by  her  first  name.  She  looked  frightened 
and  he  laughed  in  embarrassment,  then  said : 
“Lakshmi,  I heard  my  dearly  beloved  professor 
call  his  wife  by  her  first  name,  and  so  I’m  going 
to  call  you  by  yours.  I wish  I could  eat  with  you, 
as  they  eat  together  but  I know  father  would 
never  let  us.” 

Her  eyes  opened  in  surprise : “Do  they  eat 
together?  Is  she  not  afraid  she  may  send  an 
evil  spirit  into  his  food?  ” 

He  laughed  at  her  innocence.  “No,  Lakshmi, 
they  are  not  afraid  all  the  time.  They  are  not 
superstitious  as  we  are  with  regard  to  evil 
spirits.  They  trust  in  Jesus,  who  can  command 
evil  spirits  and  they  obey  him.  Oh,  how  I wish 
you  could  read  that  book.”  He  nodded  to  the 
Bible  in  her  lap. 

She  picked  it  up,  looking  hard  at  the  page  and 
read  slowly:  “ ’And  Jesus  said  unto  them:  I 


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am  the  bread  of  life.  He  that  cometh  to  me 
shall  never  hunger,  and  he  that  believeth  on  me 
shall  never  thirst.’  ’’ 

“Lakshmi!”  her  husband  cried.  ’’Where  did 
you  learn  that  verse?  ” 

”I  did  not  learn  it.  I am  reading  it.  ” 

He  had  spoken  in  Hindustani,  but  she  had 
answered  in  English.  He  was  too  amazed  to 
speak.  Lakshmi  read  on : ” ’All  that  the  Father 
giveth  me  shall  come  to  me ; and  him  that  com- 
eth to  me  I will  in  no  wise  cast  out.”  ” 

Tears  of  joy  stood  in  his  eyes  when  she  stopped 
reading.  Then  she  told  him  about  the  morning 
on  which  she  had  called  to  the  missionary.  She 
told  too,  of  his  brother  pleading.  Her  husband 
interrupted  her  to  say:  ’’Brother  too,  is  a secret 
believer.  There  are  many  in  India,  Lakshmi.  I 
want  to  tell  you,  I am  secretly  a Christian ! I 
dare  not  break  my  father’s  heart  by  open  confes- 
sion but  some  day  you  and  I will  be  Christians. 
Shall  we  not?” 

She  nodded  her  head,  saying  softly : ”I  want 


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it.”  They  knelt  together  while  Pervase  voiced 
his  hrst  verbal  prayer. 

A few  days  later  the  father  said  to  his  oldest 
son : “There  is  something  queer  about  Pervase’s 
happiness.  Can  you  explain  it?” 

Sorrowfully  the  elder  son  looked  at  his  father 
in  silence.  Then  he  answered:  “Pervase  has 
enjoyed  his  year  at  college  very  much.  Father, 
we  wish  you  too,  had  been  educated  in  a mis- 
sion college.”  (The  Continent,  Se'^t.  8,  1921.) 


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